


Let Me Dream of You

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beach Sex, Filk, M/M, Songfic, wet naked people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9554735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, okay, you caught me. I heard Chris Issac's "Wicked Game" on the way to work the other day and was remembering seeing the video and understanding that it was really what shaped my ideas of what was sensual and erotic at the time - I think I was a teen? And THEN of course I was all "Can you imagine Sherlock mostly naked and covered in sand and salt? I SURE CAN." And I thought maybe I could figure out a way to write Sherlock and John into the video. Let's see how I did, shall we? It was fun, at least, and what the fuck are we really here for but to have fun?
> 
> Thank fuck for Callie4180 (BakerStMel) for betawork. She's a goddamn jewel.

The clouds billow dark and roiling on the horizon. A storm is whipping up out to sea to the south, and John’s sure a flash of lightning is imminent; a shock to break the tension of things yet unsaid.

………………………………………………….

Sherlock is slowly strolling along the edge of the tide line, pale linen trousers rolled up to his knees and long, bare toes digging into the black volcanic sand. His passing leaves impressions that glimmer with water in the strange, intense light that glows against the dark sky. John watches as they are erased with the next passing wave.

“I think I’ll go in,” Sherlock says, contemplating the water before glancing sideways at John with a sly smile. John stops walking, knowing there’s something more behind that smile, and can’t help but grin himself when Sherlock slowly flicks open the buttons of his shirt.

John nods at the churning waves. “A bit rough, don’t you think?” he asks as he drifts close and draws a finger down the open front of Sherlock’s shirt, over smooth, heated skin and taut muscle. “Wouldn’t want you to be swept away.”

Sherlock grins and steps back. “Perhaps I’d want to be,” he says, and in a flash he tosses his shirt to John, who catches a face full of soft, buttery linen that smells of Sherlock and the sea. Before John can react Sherlock is out of his trousers and has one thumb hooked in the waistband of his pants. John can feel himself flush, his heartbeat racing as a small vee of Sherlock’s hip is exposed, a trace of sweat beading down the crease of his abdomen.

John breathes, pushes the hair off of his forehead. The salt air is sticky and hot, and Sherlock’s slow striptease on a deserted beach is making his chest tight and breath shallow.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and reaches out only to have Sherlock dance out of his reach and toward the water. John grins, predatory heat zipping along his nerves as he pulls off his own shirt and trousers and gives chase, tackling Sherlock in waist deep water only to pull him in close, taste the sea on his shoulder. Sherlock’s unearthly eyes glint in the slice of sun that cuts through the clouds as he draws John in for a kiss, a soft sensual slide of mouths that goes on and on, waves frothing around them. 

It’s this that always leaves John breathless and wanting, this surrender, the desire that simmers under their skin at every stolen moment. Discovering Sherlock’s tactile sensuality was a delight; at the same time John realizes it should have been obvious. John’s knees buckle under the drag of Sherlock’s thumb down his spine when he puts it to good use. 

John gets his feet back under him and catches Sherlock’s hands in his. “It’s going to storm soon,” he whispers as the breeze picks up. “But I want you now.”

Sherlock bites his lip, a sexy little mannerism that drives John half-mad with lust every time he catches him at it. 

“No one’s here,” John says. “It’s just us. Come on.” He pulls them toward a small grove of palm trees, sits against one and draws Sherlock down to kneel across his lap. The palm is rough against his back, but he doesn’t care, not when this is the connection he craves, the singular being in all the world that makes John’s heart stutter and stop until it reasserts itself to beat in a steady, sympathetic rhythm with Sherlock’s. The only person who makes the world sensible and clear, shockingly bright and joyful and immediate. The person whose body is melting into John’s, knees digging into the sand as he settles against him. 

Sherlock’s skin is flecked with sand, too, sticky and rough in patches across his shoulders and flushed chest. He looks beautifully undone, messy and wanting, and John can’t help but drag his lips down Sherlock’s long, elegant throat.  Sherlock’s moan is soft, almost only an exhale, and the sound is galvanizing. John slides his hands around to cup Sherlock’s arse more fully as Sherlock rocks against him, the pressure against his cock sending a jolt of adrenaline zinging along his nerves. John hears Sherlock whisper his name and looks up. He’s mesmerized: Sherlock’s curls are a wild, windswept halo around head, eyes hazy with lust and perhaps more, please more. John can’t help but push up into him, grind into him, slake his thirst for this man by drinking the sweat from his skin. 

The wind shifts now and brings the electric tang of a fast-approaching summer storm with it, palm leaves rustling above their heads. John slips his hand up the leg of Sherlock’s pants until he can press the pad of his finger against Sherlock’s hole and rub circles in time with the flex and roll of Sherlock’s hips as they gasp against each other’s mouths, thunder rolling in the background. Their pleasure peaks with the break of the storm, a rush of wind and rain that leaves them to blink and pant against each other. The grey curtain of rain reinforces how alone they are but for each other, two souls who’ve twined around each other until they’re bound fast. John traces his fingertips across Sherlock’s cheekbone before he cups his jaw. It’s now, now, now, his heart demands, it’s now, it’s time, and as Sherlock looks at him with a question in his eyes, John pulls him closer. 

“I’ve fallen in love with you,” he says, and Sherlock’s eyes go wide, rain streaming from the tips of his curls. “I’ve fallen in love with you and I’ll never be free of it. I don’t want to be.”

John waits, his heart in his throat, until Sherlock’s face breaks into a wondrous smile.

“Your courage never stops surprising me, John Watson,” Sherlock says, and John’s fear loosens as Sherlock bends to kiss him, his “I love you” bright as a lightning bolt. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the video, if you're so inclined to watch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvvX5QM4z3Y


End file.
